Seven Snapshots
by gingercooky
Summary: For every year, a different scene between a proud Hermione and an insecure Ron. A first year crush that grows into more--followed by six years of misunderstandings, confusion and downright evasion. Seven glimpses into Ron and Hermiones' hearts and minds
1. The Sorcerer's Stone

**AN: My very first HP fanfiction (but not my very first fanfiction, not by a long stretch)! Yes, I write other fanfiction, but under a different screenname :)  
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**I recently started re-reading the HP books, and it struck me that there's a trail of breadcrumbs left by JKR through the whole series about Ron and Hermione's mutual feelings of more than friendship. Yes, I'm saying that they liked each other probably from the first time they laid eyes on each other. This will be seven chapters long--one book a chapter. And we'll see one scene from each book, from both Ron and Hermione's point of view. Because let's face it, Harry is often preoccupied and doesn't see what's really going on--plus these two are masters are hiding their feelings.  
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**First chapter is, of course, HP & the Sorcerer's Stone. The scene? Professor Flitwick's class, of course. No, I will NOT be picking the most obvious scene from each book--rather a scene that particularly speaks to me or one that I haven't scene done very often.**

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****"Even better, Professor Flitwick announced in Charms that he thought they were ready to start making objects fly . . .Ron, however, was to be working with Hermione Granger. It was hard to tell whether Ron or Hermione was angrier about this . . .Ron was in a very bad mood by the end of class." (Harry Potter & the Sorcerer's Stone, pg. 170 - 171).  
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Hermione Granger always considered herself a very rational being, thank you very much. Her parents, while not medical doctors in the strictest sense, raised with her with a very strong sense of logic. However, she could not exactly blame them for the tiny spark of imagination and whimsy that was seemingly lodged deep in a corner of her heart. They were, after all, dentists and _not _technically doctors. She decided that this must be the explanation for why that slight fancy for something outrageous and illogical remained.

It was that dark corner of her soul that jumped for joy the day her Hogwarts letter came. At the very first, she'd been terrified that her parents would say no. Would laugh. Would scoff. Would insist that it was some sort of ridiculous prank played on by the children Hermione went to school with. After all, they _were _always participating in such things, she reminded herself as she stood in front of her parents, letter outstretched with a slightly trembling hand.

Her mother had taken the letter, the stiff thick parchment rustling as she did so, and she'd read it, her face a perfect blank the entire time. Hermione had died a thousand deaths in that thirty seconds that had seemed more like an hour--even though she objectively knew that one couldn't really die without some sort of physical injury and time was really quite static--thirty seconds was just thirty seconds, after all. She would remember later with a nostalgic smile how very little she had known back then.

She'd given Hermione a hesitant smile, clearly not knowing what to make of such an invitation--which was not a surprise since Hermione herself did not know quite what to make of it--and had told her that she'd discuss the possibility of Hogwarts with her father.

Hermione hadn't been able to sleep that night. She'd tossed and turned restlessly, alternatively trying to talk herself into falling asleep and straining to make out the words in her parents' hushed conversation. They'd stayed up late, talking, and Hermione had too, finally abandoning all hope of sleeping and just sitting on her bed cross-legged, watching the light shining from underneath the door.

The next morning she'd approached the kitchen table like it was a tribunal and her mother was a judge, ready to pronounce her fate. Imagination, she'd reminded herself, was just a poor substitute for reality. She wouldn't realize until a few months later how true that really was.

She and her father had discussed the possibility, her mother had said, and they were both extremely proud of her at being admitted to such a prestigious school with such a history. And yes, they would let her attend.

The sweet, hot joy that spiraled through her at this pronouncement was not equaled until she was on the Hogwarts Express, hurtling towards her new destiny. She'd been prowling the corridors of the train, obstinately to help Neville look for his frog, but in reality because she was too excited to sit still. She'd caught a glimpse of red-hot ginger hair out of the corner of her eye and she'd turned towards the compartment in interest. The moment she came face to face with Ron Weasley for the very first time, that small, insignificant portion of her heart that she'd reserved for mere flights of fancy had burst into life, an essentially barren wasteland suddenly and magically transforming into garden filled with exotic flowers.

Even though that entire day, her very first at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, was full of incomparable delights and excitements--the trip across the lake, the first glimpse of the lights shining out of Hogwarts Castle, the Sorting Hat and being chosen for Gryffindor, the first encounter with Nearly Headless Nick and the Fat Lady, and certainly not least of all. . ._magic--_when Hermione thought of that day, what she remembered most clearly was that first undeniably magical moment when she laid eyes on Ron Weasley.

At the time, she'd been mortified. He'd been attempting an obviously incorrect spell on his pet rat, and so she'd covered up her embarrassment by criticizing his magical technique and then attempting to make herself memorable by telling both Ron and Harry how smart she was. Naturally, this had been the wrong tactic and she should have known, she'd thought later, sitting alone and dejected in her empty compartment. The kids at her old, Muggle school had never been impressed by book learning. And someone like Ron, who was cool enough to have _Harry Potter _for a friend, certainly wouldn't be impressed by someone memorizing their books before they were even required to open them.

Everyone, she'd realized later, had always had it wrong when it came to Ron. They'd always believed that somehow Ron must have hit the jackpot to have Harry Potter pick him for a friend. What they failed to realize was that it was instead _Harry _who was the real lucky one.

She would rather die a thousand deaths than ever admit it, but that first conversation in the train, she'd been rather unimpressed by Harry and instead, she'd been totally bowled over by his red-headed companion. What took everyone else a ridiculously long time to see, she'd noticed in a mere instant.

Unfortunately for Hermione though, she was never very good at getting her meaning across to children her own age, and when it came to Ron, she was even worse.

He was not only totally unimpressed by her magical knowledge, he seemed to actively dislike her for it. She'd been over the moon excited when Professor Flitwick had assigned her as Ron's partner the day they were to perform their first charm. Her heart had beat unnaturally fast in her chest, and she tried to convince herself that it was because she was about to perform her very first magic.

Deep down, though, she knew that her nearly unbearable excitement had almost nothing to do with magic and everything to do with the red-headed boy who was currently scowling at her. She told herself that this expression had nothing, _nothing_, to do with his feelings about being her partner. Any other day, she might not have been able to convince herself, but today, she sang inside, was going to be perfect. _Magical_, even. The fantasy-craving part of her was out in full force and there was nothing she could do to tamp it down.

In fact, she didn't even want to.

She gave Ron a hesitant smile, trying to communicate some of the happiness she felt at him being made her partner, but instead he ignored her and picked up his wand, flapping his arms about like an overgrown bird. Not only did his wand technique leave something to be desired, she thought critically, he also managed to pronounce the charm completely wrong.

And she, because she was after all still a Granger, couldn't bear to sit there and watch him fail. Watching his frustration mount couldn't be worse than him thinking she was a know-it-all. So she corrected him.

"You're saying it wrong," Hermione said insistently, her tone perhaps a tad bit. . ._stronger_ than she'd intended it to be. "It's Wing-_gar_-dium Levi-_o_-sa, make the 'gar' nice and long."

Ron looked up from his feather at her words, his arms falling to his sides, wand dangling from his fingertips, but instead of beaming at her in gratitude for her help like she'd dreamt he would, he was glaring.

Hermione nearly recoiled in horror at the belligerent, nearly _nasty, _expression on his face. Her stomach slowly sank to the floor as he snapped back at her, "You do it, then, if you're so clever."

Somehow, she'd made a horrible miscalculation--her, _Hermione, _who had never had things go so wrong before. Ron hadn't been pleased at all to be her partner, and even worse, she'd tried to help him get the spell right because she wanted him to succeed, and now he hated her even more. Everything, she'd thought fatalistically, staring at those angry blue eyes, had somehow failed despite all her best efforts. That wasn't the way it was supposed to happen. When she applied herself, she _always _succeeded. Every single time except today.

But Grangers, she told herself, didn't give up, fighting the part of her brain that was snapping at her to stop _now _and fix this with Ron before she pushed him too far. Instead, she steeled herself against the way the hurt grew at the dislike in his eyes and raised her wand, the sleeves of her robes shifting. "_Wingardium Leviosa!"_

Her swish and flick was textbook perfection and her words enunciated with a crisp tone. If there was one thing she could do, she thought fatalistically, it was this. Boys, on the other hand, seemed to be totally beyond her.

The feather lifted off the table, and her joy at finally finding an outlet for all that power that had always raced through her veins was somehow diminished by the even angrier looks Ron was now shooting her. She shifted the feather around the room with another flick of her wand, catching the professor's attention.

"Oh, well done!" cried Professor Flitwick, clapping. "Everyone see here, Miss Granger's done it!"

Oh, she'd done it alright, Hermione thought, glancing at the annoyance mounting in Ron's expression. He'd never like her now.

* * *

The first day of Hogwarts was something that Ronald Bilius Weasley had been looking forward to well. . .for _forever_. He just knew it was going to be brilliant, and the way his brothers had talked about Hogwarts had only solidified this absolute fact in his mind. Nothing, absolutely_ nothing_, could ruin his happiness on this first day.

So far, he thought as he sat a compartment with _the _Harry Potter and they shared an enormously large, sugar-filled tea, he had been right. It'd been perfect. Each thing that fell into place and swung his way convinced him more and more that he would get on grandly at Hogwarts.

And then, _she_ burst into the compartment, all frizzy hair and big brown eyes and haughty attitude. He wanted to dislike her on sight. She was a girl, wasn't she? He was honor bound to hate her. To do anything else would be an affront to all men, everywhere.

Except that well. . .he _didn't_ hate her. He couldn't. Not when she was staring at him with such undisguised interest. He couldn't even hate her after she insulted him, which, if he had anything to say about it, proved that the excitement of finally going to Hogwarts had made him mental. And really, he thought to himself with disgust, had he ever wanted to succeed at anything the way he'd wanted to when she challenged him to "let's see it?"

He'd wanted to show her. And well, to show off a little too. His own disappointment seemed to be mirrored on her face as the spell failed with only a small puff of smoke. He told himself that it wasn't important and that he could care less about impressing her, a silly first year girl with teeth that were far too big for her mouth, but he knew he was lying.

They introduced themselves and he was sure that she would instantly forget he existed and switch her attention to Harry. To his gobsmacked astonishment, she _still _stared at him, even after meeting Harry. If anything, that just convinced him once and for all that she was mental--even more mental than him. Why would anyone want to talk to him when they could talk to Harry Potter?

Then of course, she'd been sorted into Gryffindor with him and Harry. If anything could have ruined his happiness at becoming the millionth Weasley to become a Gryffindor, it was the fact that would now have to face her every single day, in every single class, her superior expression taunting him with everything that she knew that he didn't. Any hope that he could avoid her--and avoid the stinking _feelings_ she roused in him--was now lost, and he steadfastly ignored the tiny part of his heart that seemed to cheer along with the rest of the Gryffindor table when she was sorted.

The first time he really had to deal with her was on his own was, ironically, the day of their first magic. It was Charms with Professor Flitwick, and they'd been assigned as partners. He scowled at her when they'd been paired, trying to hide from everyone and maybe even himself, that he was cheering again. Just the way he'd cheered when she'd put her foot down and insisted she accompany him and Harry to the midnight duel with Malfoy. You had to admire a girl who didn't take no for an answer, even if she was a bloody pain in the rear.

Cheering. At being paired with a _girl_. He must be mental. There was no other explanation.

The spell seemed simple enough, he'd seen his family wave their wands his entire life, and he couldn't deny the power that seemed to rocket through him every time he picked up his own wand. It would be easy, no big deal. Except that he tried, and tried and tried again--failing utterly each time he swung his wand. Ron couldn't decide which was worse: that he was failing at magic or that he was failing at magic in front of Hermione.

The latter, he decided, when she corrected him, her voice butting into his endless round of internal arguments. It was bad enough that he couldn't do it. It was worse than she was the one to tell him that he was failing because he was doing it _wrong_.

He wanted to sink through the floor in embarrassment. How could he have ever thought that it would be simple and easy? Or that he could even hope to impress someone as bright as Hermione? He wasn't brilliant like Percy or funny like the twins or even a great Quidditch player like Charlie. He supposed that all this meant he'd also be awful at impressing a girl like Hermione--not that she even _could _be impressed. Mental, that one was.

Except that it wasn't even a bad kind of mental. In fact, he found that he rather liked it. At least when she wasn't trying to show him up, which she did almost immediately after he challenged her to do better.

He was still sulking when Harry and him walked out of the classroom. Harry mentioned how well Hermione had done, and he'd only groaned that she was a nightmare--except that he was mentally altering the statement to say that instead, _he _was the nightmarish one. He couldn't even perform one easy charm to impress her. Instead, he'd failed spectacularly and in the face of her rather admirable success, he felt even worse about it. She'd never like him now.

Then Harry said something that made him downright nauseous. "I think she heard you," he observed, as Hermione rushed past them, her head down, her feet pattering over the cobblestones of the courtyard.

Ron knew Harry was watching him, waiting to see if he cared that he'd hurt her feelings. And because she was already out of sight and he'd already messed up badly and it couldn't get much worse, he just shrugged and said, "So?"

Except that he wasn't shrugging in his head. In his head, he was screaming at himself. Rather loudly. He'd never meant for Hermione to hear that. He thought of all the nice things he thought of her--that she was mental but in a ridiculously adorable way, that she stood down Malfoy every chance she could, how she always had every answer--and he groaned inside that instead of all _those_ things, she'd instead heard the stupid thing he'd said to look cool to Harry and to cover up for his own failure.

Hours later at dinner, she was still missing. He hadn't said a word about it to Harry, but it had been an almost constant litany in his head. Every time he saw brown hair, he thought his heart might stop, but it was never her. She, he realized, would _never_ forgive him, even if he asked her--which he wasn't going to. He'd be the laughingstock of the school if he apologized to a _girl_.

Because then everyone would think that he liked her.

Which he did.

Instead of focusing on this rather obvious and rather unfortunate fact, Ron tried to turn his attention back to his full plate, but he found that for the first time in as long as he could remember, he just wasn't hungry.

And then he overheard Lavender Brown telling Parvati Patil that Hermione was in the girl's bathroom. Crying.

_Prat_, he yelled at himself, she's moping in the bathroom over something you said that you didn't even _mean_.

Ron was trying to decide if he should go tell her so, when Professor Quirrrell ran into the Great Hall, end of his turban flying and his eyes hysterical. Stuttering out that there was a troll in the dungeons, he proceeded to pass out.

Mass hysteria overtook the students, and even Ron managed to forget for half a second that Hermione hated him, but they were on their way to the Gryffindor Common Room when he suddenly remembered her. Alone. In the girls' bathroom. _Alone_. With a troll on the loose.

Ron was in the middle of debating with himself whether he should even mention it to Harry, when he suddenly grabbed his arm.

"I've just thought—Hermione."

_Argue, _Ron told himself, _don't let Harry know that you're nearly sagging with relief that he remembered_.

"What about her?" Ron asked, trying for belligerent.

"She doesn't know about the troll." From the way that Harry was looking at him like he was the most insensitive boy ever, Ron knew that he'd managed to convince him that he didn't care about Hermione at all. He just had to keep it up now. That wouldn't be hard at all. In fact, Ron told himself, the more he pretended he didn't like her, the more likely it would be to come true. Like a prediction of sorts.


	2. The Chamber of Secrets

**AN: Here it is! Chapter 2, which is, of course, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets--where we meet Ginny Weasley for the first time and Tom Riddle and the basilik. And Ron and Hermione continue to totally and completely misunderstand the other so utterly that it's a miracle they ever see eye to eye at all. Really, these two are such a perfect example of both speaking the same language and not getting a thing the other is saying. But really, that's what makes them all the more adorable, right?**

**As some of you might have noticed, pretty much all the dialogue comes directly from the text. We're just seeing the scenes from a different POV--either Ron or Hermione's--with their thoughts instead of Harry's. Because really, Harry is just not very observant at this point. There are some scenes that I stretched a bit, but I'm trying not to directly contradict anything that JKR wrote. For example, she never tells us exactly _why _Ron and Hermione are together at Harry's first Quidditch practice, but they are clearly there together.**

**Thanks to Jamie and Andrew and Rach. I would give SNs. . .but well, I'm trying to keep the "real me" under wraps here :)**

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**"A loud bang echoed around the stadium and a jet of green light shot out of the wrong end of Ron's wand, hitting him in the stomach and sending him reeling backward onto the grass. 'Ron! Ron! Are you all right?' squealed Hermione. Ron opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. Instead he gave an almighty belch and several slugs dribbled out of his mouth onto his lap." (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, pg 112-133).**

Ron spent a lot of time that summer in his bright orange room at the top of the Burrow, just lying in bed and thinking. It might be a running joke that the second youngest Weasley didn't do much of that, but Ron _did _think—despite the growing evidence to the contrary. And that summer, he did a lot of thinking about Hermione Granger. He thought about Harry too, of course, because Harry was the best friend that a bloke could have, but deep down, it just wasn't the same. _They _weren't the same.

It wasn't that Hermione wasn't a good friend too--she _was_. It wasn't that she was less loyal than Harry or even less fun to hang around—though he would have rather faced the _Cruciatus _curse than ever admit because it was a commonly-held belief that Hermione Granger was a rule-adhering, mischief-ruining wet blanket. Whenever Seamus or Dean made that claim, Ron would change the subject because they were wrong, so _wrong, _but he liked that he and Harry were the only blokes who were privy to Hermione's occasional jaunts into troublemaking.

All that aside, Ron was acutely aware that there was something vast that separated his friendship with Harry from his friendship with Hermione. It all came down to how much he was truly willing to share. Under pain of death, Ron could possibly admit to Harry _something _about his feelings for a certain clever witch. Even under pain of death, possibly even with He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named staring him down, Ron knew he could never breathe a word of it to Hermione. Not _ever_.

The first letter he'd gotten from her over the summer drove the point home. He'd been so downright bloody _thrilled _to see that familiar neat, ever-so-precise handwriting on the envelope that he'd nearly flung himself over four Weasleys to get to it. He told himself he was only trying to reach it before Fred or George got their hands on it and crowed for the next three months that Ron was getting letters from a _girl_, but he knew he was lying to himself. He'd raced up the stairs, all the way to the top floor of the Burrow, and by the time he'd reached the top, his heart was pounding in his chest. From the _stairs_, of course.

Not from the letter crumpled in his hand. He'd smoothed it out carefully before opening it, eagerly scanning the contents. It had been a perfectly nice, friendly, albeit _typical _Hermione letter. Not that he knew necessarily what a typical Hermione letter entailed since this was his very first, but this one pretty much screamed _Hermione_. It was almost all about books and Hogwarts and all the sorts of proper Muggle things she'd been doing during the summer. Ron wondered if Harry had gotten a similar letter, but then reminded himself that of course he had. The three of them were _friends_. Why on earth would Hermione send him a different kind of letter than she'd send to Harry?

Ron _did _like her as a friend; he also liked her as _more _than a friend—and the two were horribly twisted up together into this big mess of self-doubt and fear and joy inside him. In any case, there wasn't anything to be really _done _about the more-than-friendly part of liking Hermione. She would just laugh at him. Unfortunately there was just enough hope in Ron that he couldn't give up _completely _on the possibility that at some point, in the distant and murky future, she might return his feelings. But for that to happen, he had to convince her that he wasn't a complete git.

So he spent the summer thinking of ways to impress her, but by the time he and Ron and Fred rescued Harry from the awful Muggles at the end of the summer, the list of possibilities was still alarmingly short. He wasn't incredibly clever, or particularly funny or even very athletic. And, he thought ruefully, horrible, ruddy ginger hair wasn't exactly at the top of every witch's wish list.

But the car, _the car,_ was bloody brilliant. Sure, Harry arrived at Hogwarts the same way, but Ron was the one _driving_ the car. In his mind, they would land perfectly, right in front of the entrance, and Hermione would rush out the front gate, cheeks flushed, hair flying, her expression full of admiration and a just a tinge of worry.

That lovely fantasy was instead totally destroyed by the bloody Whomping Willow. And Snape, who spent most of first year looking for a way to expel both of them, and nearly got one, this first night of their second year.

Somehow, despite the whole debacle, they managed to avoid Snape's trap. By the time they made it to the Fat Lady and her entrance to the Gryffindor Common Room, Harry was silent and Ron was mourning the car and the way it could have impressed Hermione. Then, he heard her voice, and he turned to see her rushing towards them and that's when Ron realized that she _knew_ and well, she didn't exactly look what he would call impressed. In fact, she looked rather the opposite. Whoops. He doesn't think he'd ever be grateful for the Whomping Willow, but he'd rather take that particular arrival than Hermione trying to hex his balls off for being a showy arse.

Hermione's face was flushed a bright red and her eyes flashed in annoyance. Ron, even though he had a feeling he was closer to losing his life now than he'd been earlier with Snape, couldn't help but feel a wave of exhilaration rush through him at seeing her again. Mental tendencies and all, he'd bloody _missed _her.

"_There _you are! Where have you _been_? The most _ridiculous _rumors—someone said you'd been expelled for crashing a flying _car._"

Ron held his breath, thinking that she sounded bloody well furious. Almost as furious as McGonagall had. Maybe even as bad as Snape.

Or maybe that was just his own head, berating himself for _again _doing something that was originally intended to impress her that only ended up backfiring again.

"Well, we haven't been expelled," Harry assured Hermione.

"Skip the lecture," Ron told her with an impatient voice, almost unable to bear hearing more from her about his own shortcomings. After all, not everyone could be the brightest witch in the class. And him? He was just Ron Weasley. Just _another_ Weasley. He couldn't bear to see that truth in her own eyes, so he turned away as soon as they got into the Gryffindor Common Room, saying something about how he was tired and wanted to go to bed.

If things had gone differently, he would have liked nothing better than to sit with her and talk after a whole summer apart with only a few stiff letters to break the monotony, but with the disappointment bitter on his tongue, Ron instead listened to Percy and climbed the stairs to the dormitory, totally ignoring the hurt look in Hermione's eyes.

After the flying car debacle, Ron told himself that he was going to be choosier about the moments to impress Hermione.

In the end, there was no choice, really. There was no time to prepare, no time to think hard on something that might demonstrate to her that he was more deserving than Harry Potter—even though a million years probably wouldn't be enough for that.

No, in the end it came down to Draco Malfoy and his big _sodding _mouth.

He and Hermione had gone to watch the Gryffindor Quidditch practice. He'd been thrilled when she'd agreed to come along, and even more thrilled, and maybe even a little nauseous, when he saw she hadn't lugging along half the library with her. That meant, he quavered a little, they'd be _talking_. _Talking without Harry. _Even though he liked to think that he and Hermione were friends just on their own without Harry, it was so rarely just the two of them.

It was in moments like these Ron became excruciatingly aware of her nearness as they sat on the empty stands, her leg brushing his as they watched the Gryffindors take the pitch. It was in moments like these, Ron thought to himself darkly, that the whole other side of his _friendliness _with Hermione came to the forefront.

His palms had been sweating before they'd even sat down. He'd initially wanted to come to the Gryffindor practice so he could observe and learn and then hopefully make the team next year. Even though Hermione seemed rather unimpressed by Quidditch, he thought maybe she'd come around in time. But with Hermione sitting next to him, even in total innocence, Ron knew that he would have very little hope in absorbing any of the new Gryffindor plays. If anyone had told him a year ago that a girl existed who could make him forget about Quidditch, Ron would have told them they were lying prats. But it appeared he would have been quite wrong.

Then Malfoy had shown up with the Slytherin team, all carrying _Nimbus Two Thousand and Ones, _and Hermione had jerked on his jumper, urging him to come with her to see what the fuss was about. He didn't even hesitate. He got up and followed her because as a bloke with a stupid, _ridiculous _crush, he pretty much had no choice. He went if she asked, end of story. He just hoped that with the distraction of the Slytherin arrival nobody had noticed him following her around like a _bloody_ dog.

Malfoy proceeded to amuse the Slytherins by insulting Gryffindor—which was pretty much like a House pastime for them—and he couldn't believe Hermione's reaction. Or really, his own.

"At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to _buy _their way in," she said with a sharp tone. "_They _got in on pure talent."

He had to give Hermione credit for that dig. It was sharp, her timing was flawless, and it was undeniably, utterly _true_. He'd seen Malfoy on a broom once or twice, and the bloke had nothing on Harry. Nothing on any of the other Seekers he'd ever seen, actually. Of course, his lack of overall skill might be possibly because he was currently wearing those nasty green and silver Slytherin robes.

Ron tried picturing Malfoy in Chudley Cannon orange, and almost shuddered at the thought. Nope, he decided, Malfoy would still be trash. Even if the Cannons ever let him on their squad, which they wouldn't. They were bad, but not _Malfoy_ bad.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," Draco hissed at Hermione and Ron's whole world went red, adrenaline mixing with magic and sizzling through his veins. It was bad enough when Malfoy insulted him or Harry, but it was an entirely different kettle of fish when he turned on Hermione.

Ron knew he had a horrible temper. The _Weasley temper _it was called and it was often spoken of in hushed, reverent, almost _fearful_ tones in the Wizarding world. He thought he'd experienced the worst it could be before this. He'd definitely been furious before—with his brothers, with his mum sometimes, and definitely with Snape and Malfoy and all the Slytherins last year. But he'd never experienced such pure, unadulterated rage.

It swept through him, leaving his heart racing and his mind a total blank. He acted without a single thought in his head. He felt his hand reaching into his robes for his wand and he heard himself bellow in a voice he almost didn't recognize as his own, "You'll pay for that one, Malfoy."

He cast a spell, though which one it was, he couldn't even say. He'd done it all on sheer instinct and with the nerve and power that the anger rushing through him had wrought. It wasn't until he felt the explosion out of his wand knock him back hard on the ground that he realized what he'd done—and what his wand had done instead. He felt horribly sick, so sick that he couldn't even drag himself up. He could hear Hermione's voice, very far away, as the worst nausea he'd ever experienced punched him hard in the gut.

Unfortunately, he realized what was happening about a second before it actually did. He gave a great belch, and two slugs came up, one after another. They tasted rotten and felt even worse, and if he wasn't already being sick all over the ground, he would have puked again.

He was only vaguely aware of the Slytherins' reaction to his predicament, and for that he was grateful. It was bad enough that he was currently puking slugs in front of _Hermione_.

Hermione and Harry each grabbed one of his arms and they dragged him to Hagrid's hut, who cheerily set a copper basin front of him and advised him that the slugs were, "Better out than in." Ron would have made a face at this, but he was too busy bending over the bucket, being miserably and utterly sick.

And then, just when he thought that it was impossible for the whole situation to get any bloody worse, Hagrid asked Harry what happened. Ron was only half-listening because well, he was kind of occupied at the moment and also, he'd been in the middle of the whole bloody mess--he didn't need to hear about it again.

But of course, whenever Hermione spoke, he listened, because he couldn't even help himself. He was that much of a bloody miserable sod. "He did," she said, assuring Hagrid that Malfoy had _indeed _done what Harry said. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course."

The world stopped. Another slug forced itself wretchedly out of his mouth and Ron contemplated never ever facing Hermione again. She didn't even know_ why_ he'd defended her. Of course, he reminded himself in a fit of loathing anger, she _wouldn't _know what Mudblood meant. She couldn't possibly know because she had Muggle parents. She didn't realize that calling someone that in most Wizarding families meant an instant mouthful of soap.

Or in Ron's case, a stomachful of slugs.

He was the only one in the room who had really grown up in the Wizarding world. He was the only one in the room who could try to tell Hermione what Malfoy had really said to her. Maybe, if she understood, she could see that he couldn't just stand by and let Malfoy insult her that way. Maybe, if he explained, she could really _see _him.

So gingerly he raised his head, fighting the inevitable pull of the nausea, wiped the cold sweat off his brow, and faced the girl who had no idea what she meant to him. The slugs were bad, yeah, but he would go through worse if Malfoy ever dared to insult her again.

"It's about the most insulting thing he could think of," he said, trying to meet her eyes and failing. "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born--you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards--like Malfoy's family--who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood."

And, Ron silently added as he dived for the bucket yet again, they're wrong, because there's nobody, _nobody_, who's better than you.

* * *

Hermione Jean was used to being alone. She'd spent already two summers alone, while her parents worked at their office. She'd been the only girl in her old Muggle school who was allowed to stay at home alone. This normally would have been considered "cool," but in Hermione's case, it only emphasized her boorishness and responsibility, and as a result, she'd been isolated for it instead. She actually hadn't had very many friends in the Muggle school, so when Harry and Ron had become her friends, she'd been thrilled.

And most of that thrill, she told herself firmly, had to do with the fact that she had two amazing friends--not that one of them happened to be Ron Weasley.

While she knew she was in a much better situation in the summer than Harry, Hermione still missed Hogwarts. She was used to being alone, but the last year had had such an impact on her that she no longer enjoyed it the same way she'd used to. She missed busy routine of Hogwarts: the classes and the professors and the fascination that the library held. And she missed Ron. Harry, too, of course.

By the third week, she'd already re-read _Hogwarts: A History _twice. After that, she spent a week debating whether she should write to Harry and Ron. After vacillating more than she was definitely comfortable with, Hermione finally decided in the affirmative.

Harry's letter was easy. She dashed off a few sentences, not even bothering with proofreading or drafts, and addressed it. The whole process took less than fifteen minutes. Of course, if she had only had Harry to write to, she wouldn't have taken a week to decide on writing in the first place.

Ron's letter, on the other hand, was anything _but _easy. They should have been the same, Hermione told herself over and over as she stared at the blank piece of parchment in front of her--there should have been _no _difference between the letter she wrote to Harry and the letter she wrote to Ron. In fact, she almost ripped open Harry's already-sealed letter and copied it word for word, but at the last second, she set it back down on the desk.

It was time, she realized, for her to come to terms with the fact that while everyone else might see her friendship with Ron as identical to the one she had with Harry, deep down, she _knew _they were different. Harry was like her brother. Ron was. . ._not_.

So it made sense, Hermione thought, as she took a deep breath and returned to her blank parchment, that their letters would be different. It was _logical. _Except that Hermione knew her feelings for Ron were the opposite of logical. If she was indeed being logical, she'd have a crush on Harry instead. While he was rather bull-headed and enjoyed leaping before he looked, Harry was smart, had the makings of a very strong wizard, and was rather good-looking, even for a scrawny boy of twelve.

Conversely, Ron was rude, mean, lazy, hated doing his homework, and seemed to think not knowing _anything _was a state greatly to be desired. He had good points too, Hermione insisted to herself. Despite all his shortcomings, he was also brave, unfailingly loyal, and had a wicked sense of humor--though he often used it at inopportune moments. Plus, she seemed to have become rather partial to ginger hair. Objectively , she _shouldn't _like Ron. There was nothing about him, taken individually, that should make him so blasted fascinating--but it was undeniable that to her, he just _was_.

Staring at the parchment for the next hour, Hermione decided that day that she was through fighting it. So she liked him. So what? It wasn't as if anything would ever come of it because it was hopeless that he would _ever _notice she was a girl, but that corner of her heart that liked him argued that she was _wrong_. Not only was she wrong, it added, but she couldn't give up before she even tried.

So she squared her shoulders, and decided that though he would likely have no idea she was doing It, she, Hermione Jean Granger, was going to _fight _for the attention of Ronald Bilius Weasley. She'd not really made much effort last year. Half the time, she'd been actively trying to discourage herself from liking him, but no more. If she liked him, which she clearly did, she wasn't going to go down without a good fight.

She spent the next hour attempting to draft a suitable letter to Ron that would somehow communicate, _subtly_, that she was a girl and that she was worth seeing as such. There had to be some sort of magical words she could use that only he would understand, but as the first hour changed into the next and the pile of crumpled parchment beside her desk grew, Hermione wondered if it was useless. Unless she _made up _the whole dratted thing, there wasn't anything she could say that was really _new_. She'd read last year's school books. _Twice_. She'd gone to the park. She'd had a haircut. Mainly, she'd stayed at home and done what Hermione had always done. And clearly, from what Ron had spent the last year saying, anything that Hermione had always done was of little to no interest.

Hermione decided it was time to try another tactic. Maybe there was something in her rather boring Muggle life that she could describe that he would find interesting. Except that the only two things that Ron appeared to have any interest in were Quidditch and candy.

Hermione didn't play Quidditch. In fact, she couldn't even _figure out _Quidditch. Of course, she knew the rules and the theory, but she didn't understand Ron and Harry's singular fascination with it. She decided that once she got back to school, she'd re-devote herself to understanding the game. Maybe she'd even check out _Quidditch Through the Ages _again from the library. It had been an interesting book, despite that it had done absolutely nothing in helping her learn how to fly. Ron would be impressed by her interest in his favorite sport, and maybe she could even discuss it with him. However, this plan, while a sound one, didn't give her something to discuss with him _now_.

As for candy, Hermione's parents were dentists, after all, and they rarely (if ever) let her have sweets. For a minute, she considered telling Ron about Muggle sweets and chocolates, but since none of them were ever as good as their Wizarding counterparts, that seemed more than a little pointless.

Hermione groaned in frustration and finally, sticking her quill in the ink pot on her desk, she decided she would just have to write him the same sort of letter she'd written to Harry. Maybe Ron, coming from a Wizarding family, would find her boring Muggle life interesting. He _had _said after all, that his dad loved Muggles.

She wrote three drafts, each successively drier than the next, but when the fourth hour of "Let's write Ron a letter," rolled around, Hermione decided she had gone, as Ron himself would state it, absolutely bloody _mental_. Slapping her quill down on the desk, Hermione quickly proofread the last version of the letter, though she wondered why she was even bothering. She'd seen some of Ron's compositions last year. He wouldn't know a grammatical error if it came up and bit him in the arse.

She mailed off both letters the next afternoon and she told herself that there was no need to expect a reply from either of them. She was sure that Harry's awful Muggle relatives would forbid him from receiving or sending any Owl mail, and Ron, well. . .he was not exactly the corresponding type.

Still, when a letter dropped down the letter slot one morning two weeks later, Hermione was thrilled. She could see the messy, blotted writing even across the room and she _knew_ it was from him. He'd written her back despite that he'd insisted he never even _looked_ at parchment during the summer holiday.

As the summer drew to a close, Hermione counted down the weeks with an excitement that she'd never experienced before. She'd been excited about going to Hogwarts _last _summer, of course, but back then she hadn't had any idea how truly spectacular it was. And, a sly little voice added, she hadn't yet met Ron.

The first hint that Hermione had that something was wrong was when she couldn't find Ron _or _Harry on the train to Hogwarts. She'd seen them both in Diagon Alley, and they'd both been perfectly friendly—well, Harry had been anyway. Ron had been his usual obnoxious self, barely acknowledging her existence even though they'd corresponded with perfect civility over the summer. When she knew he wasn't looking, she rolled her eyes at his back. She would never understand boys who thought it was somehow _less manly _to be friends with girls.

If she had to confess, the train to Hogwarts had been much less fun without the two of them. She'd been forced to sit with Ginny, who was squirming and nervous in her seat. Hermione had considered asking her once or twice if she'd seen Harry or Ron, but considering the fuchsia shade Ginny blushed whenever anyone mentioned Harry's name, she'd decided against it.

Then, she asked Hagrid when they got into the station if he'd seen either Ron or Harry off, and he'd shaken his head. By the time Hermione reached the castle itself and made her way into the Great Hall, she was shaking with either anger or hurt or fear. She wasn't sure which of the three of it actually was, and it was entirely possible that it was a combination of all three. She was supposed to be their _friend_—how dare they leave her behind? And what if something bad had caught them? What if they'd somehow been taken by Voldemort? Even if they hadn't, Hermione thought it was extremely rude of them to just _disappear _this way, especially with such a horribly dark wizard on the loose who was just waiting for an opportunity to come face to face with Harry again.

Hermione could barely even force herself to watch the Sorting Ceremony, and though the Sorting Hat's song was just as wickedly clever and witty as ever, she didn't laugh. She _couldn't_. She could barely even muster up any enthusiasm when Ginny was sorted into Gryffindor.

Dinner was just being served when a wild rumor began to circulate down the Gryffindor table. At first she ignored it because the idea of Harry and Ron flying a _car _to Hogwarts and then crashing into the Whomping Willow was just too ridiculous to be true. They were stupid, yes, and occasionally very short-sighted, but this would be a new low for both of them.

Unfortunately, from the way that Ginny seemed to lift her head when she heard the news, Hermione had a sinking feeling that not only was this possible, it was _probable_. After all, if anyone would know the levels to which Ron Weasley could sink, it would be his baby sister.

Hermione felt a wave of hurt surge through her, followed by another of anger. Not only had they _left _her behind, they'd hadn't even told her where or what they were doing and as a result, she'd nearly worried herself sick. Pushing aside her uneaten pudding, Hermione decided to head towards the Common Room and wait for them to come crawling in.

As it happened, they were already at the Fat Lady's portrait, discussing possible passwords to get into Gryffindor Tower.

The words bubbled up inside her before she could even think about them or the way she'd sound when they erupted out of her mouth. She didn't want to be a know-it-all, or a annoyingly responsible do-gooder. In all honesty, she'd never been so bloody glad to see the pair of them _ever_. Hermione felt as if they'd taken years of her life tonight. "_There _you are! Where have you _been_? The most _ridiculous _rumors—someone said you'd been expelled for crashing a flying _car._"

Harry assured her that they hadn't been expelled—as if she _cared _if they'd been expelled. Hermione remembered her own words of only a year ago regarding how being expelled would be worse than dying and nearly shuddered at the thought.

She wanted to burst into tears and hug both of them, she was so relieved they were in one piece, but instead, she clamped her lips together and repeated herself. "You're not telling me you _did _fly here?"

An awkward silence fell over the trio. Harry looked down at his feet, clearly ashamed that they'd done such a ridiculously foolish thing, but Ron faced her straight on, his complexion turning almost as red as his hair. "Skip the lecture," he said, with a decidedly unfriendly tone, "and tell us the new password."

Hermione felt as if she'd been struck. He didn't even care that she'd been worried out of her _mind_. All he cared about was getting what he wanted from her and nothing else.

"It's wattlebird," she said, feeling as if something had very suddenly taken the wind out of her sails, "but that that's not the point."

Hermione was not surprised to see that the Common Room was full of Gryffindors celebrating the return of their most-famous member, Harry Potter, in the one of the most spectacular entrances in the history of Hogwarts. Hermione stood to the side as both Harry and Ron were congratulated by everyone. Gradually the room began to clear out, helped along by Percy Weasley, who was a Prefect.

Ron didn't glance her direction once, so eventually she turned towards the stairs of the girls dormitories'. Nothing about the evening had gone according to her much-fantasized about summer plans. She heard Harry say goodnight, but Ron continued to ignore her. Probably in punishment for his much-deserved lecture, she thought with venom as she climbed into her four-poster bed.

It would get better, she tried to tell herself as she lay awake listening to the other girls' snores. It _had_ to get better—it certainly couldn't get much worse between them.

A week later, Hermione felt reasonably sure that she'd been right. After all, Ron had asked her if she'd like to watch the Gryffindor Quidditch practice with him, and she'd taken this as a sign that all her attempts at understanding Quidditch were paying off. He thought she was newly-interested in the game and that gave them some sort of common ground.

As a notice of good faith, Hermione even left every single book behind in her dormitory, showing up empty handed in the Common Room to meet Ron. Their walk to the Quidditch pitch was almost totally silent, though she spent the entire time forming good questions to ask when they sat down to watch the practice. Hermione was hoping that he hadn't suddenly regretted asking her to come along, and that was why he was so quiet. After all, the two of them so rarely did anything alone together. Harry was almost always with them.

They sat down on the empty stands, and Hermione felt Ron's leg brush hers, making her turn a million shades of red. Goodness, she thought, I had _no _idea this was going to be so bloody awkward. Ron was clearly feeling something along the same lines, because he _still _hadn't said more than two words put together to her.

However, the minute that Harry came out onto the pitch, Ron talked to _him_. Hermione felt a totally irrational twinge of jealousy and forced it down. Ron _had _asked her, after all. Whether he was regretting it now or not, he'd done it and at the very least, he could be civil to her.

Just then, she saw a glint of silver and green out of the corner of her eye, and her jaw dropped at the Slytherins who came marching out onto the pitch as if they owned it.

"Come on," she said, tugging on Ron's jumper. "Let's see what's going on." She didn't even turn back to see if he followed her, but with her special _Ron _sense, as she called it, she could nearly feel him behind her—as if there was some sort of invisible rope that connected the two of them.

Ron seemed even more flabbergasted by the seven new broomsticks facing him than the fact that Draco Malfoy was the new Slytherin seeker, but Hermione barely even noticed his slack-jawed expression as she churned with anger and annoyance at the superior Slytherin attitudes.

She wasn't, Hermione thought with rage, called the cleverest witch in her class for _nothing_. It was so easy to use all those brains to do something bad for a change—like conjure up a particularly cutting insult. "At least no one on the Gryffindor team had to _buy _their way in," she said with a trace of smugness in her tone. "_They _got in on pure talent."

She could tell by the way that Malfoy's expression flickered just the tiniest bit that she'd gotten a good solid hit in. For all that everyone seemed to be intimidated by Draco, she thought it was rather obvious where his weaknesses lay.

"No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood," Draco spat back at her. Hermione shrugged the insult off. She didn't even know what he'd called and she didn't really care. Unlike Harry and Ron, she kind of ignored Draco. And unlike how every single one of Ron's teases cut her to the quick, Draco's barbs just deflected off her.

But to her utter shock, the words she didn't understand seemed to create chaos. Flint had to dive in front of Malfoy to prevent Fred and George from flattening him, and Ron, _Ron_, yanked his wand from the pocket of his jeans and pointed it firmly and decisively at Malfoy, his expression vengeful.

Except that Ron seemed to have forgotten that his wand had suffered a rather unfortunate accident in the Whomping Willow incident, and instead of cursing Malfoy, the spell he shouted backfired and hit him straight on. Ron flew and landed on his back on the grass.

All thoughts of Malfoy disappeared. All she could see was the redhead lying motionless on the ground. "Ron! Ron! Are you all right?" she nearly squealed, not even thinking about how downright _terrified _she sounded and how anyone paying even the tiniest bit of attention to her would know her secret in half a second.

She crouched near him, and felt a horrible tremor run through her at how _green _he looked—nearly as green as the grass he was lying on. Then, Ron leaned over and did the most disgusting thing she had _ever _seen in her entire life, both Muggle and Wizard. He _threw up_ two huge, slimy looking slugs.

Hermione had to turn away for half a second, to prevent her own breakfast from joining Ron's.

"We'd better get him to Hagrid's, it's nearest," Harry said, taking control of the situation. Hermione nodded, though she couldn't help but look on helplessly as Ron continued to barf up slug after slug in the most wrenching display she'd ever witnessed.

Somehow, between her and Harry, they managed to get Ron to Hagrid's, and as he leaned over a bucket and proceeded to belch up slugs, Harry explained what had happened.

She'd been so _shocked _by what had happened to Ron that she'd almost forgotten what Draco had called her until Harry brought it up. Hagrid seemed rather taken aback by the name, but she had to confess she had no idea what it meant.

"He did," she said. "But I don't know what it means. I could tell it was really rude, of course."

Never in a million years had she expected Ron to try to right himself from his semi-prone position on the floor to explain. He looked absolutely wretched, cold sweat dotting his pale forehead, but he gasped out, "Mudblood's a really foul name for someone who is Muggle-born— you know, non-magic parents. There are some wizards—like Malfoy's family—who think they're better than everyone else because they're what people call pure-blood."

He dived back under the table to further rid himself of the slugs, and Hermione felt herself go still and silent. It _had _been a truly awful thing that Draco had called her. A terrible name. And Ron—silly, ridiculous, _loyal _Ron—had defended her.

She felt herself grow bright pink just as Hagrid said, "An' they haven't invented a spell our Hermione can' do." She hoped that everyone thought she was blushing at his compliment versus at the incredible gesture that Ron had made.

Hermione didn't know what to say to him. How did you even express gratitude to someone who belched up slugs after defending your honor?

"Thanks," she said quietly, but Hagrid and Harry were already lost in another discussion about Professor Lockhart and Ron had returned to his basin and she didn't think he'd heard her. She would tell him again, she swore to herself, looking at his bright red bobbing head, she would find _some _way to tell him how much all these slugs meant to her.

* * *

**Awwwwwww. Young love :)**

**Book 1 and 2 have been really easy to pick. I am debating on scenes to depict for Book 3, The Prisoner of Azkaban. Any suggestions?**


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